


the next time we speak

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, F/M, Hospitals, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: it’s not the job that did this to him, that left him lying limp in a hospital bed. ‘asleep’ for god knows how long, the chances that he’ll ever wake up again dropping with every hour.It was a car - completely unrelated to a case. and isn’t that ironic? he risks his life all the fucking time entering houses gun first, not knowing what dangers lie ahead, and the first time he drives in over a year some asshole decides it’ll be fun to go 120 on the freeway and spins out of control, causing a four car accident in the process. the asshole walked away, too - how’s that fair?you wonder what spencer would say, if he could talk right now. if he’d tell you about the statistical likelihood of dying in a car accident and how much more likely it is than dying from a shark attack or something. if he’d tell you about how we aren’t afraid of cars because they’re too recent an invention - that if they’d been around thousands and thousands of years ago, we’d have evolved to fear them the same way we do spiders and snakes and deep, open water.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	the next time we speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andiebeaword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andiebeaword/gifts).



> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii :)

You were ready, or at least you thought you were, for the worst to happen. To lose a teammate during a botched take-down or due to a miscalculated profile or whatever. You thought you were prepared for one of them to get hurt. That you would be able to tell yourself, _this is a risk that they accepted - that_ I _accepted - when we came to this job. We always knew that this could happen at any time. Any case might be our last, and I’ve accepted that._

You got so used to the idea of _the job_ being the thing to take one of you out in the end that you never stopped to consider any other possibilities. It makes you all the more unprepared for _it_ when it happens.

It’s not the job that did this to him, that left him lying limp in a hospital bed. ‘Asleep’ for _god knows_ how long, the chances that he’ll ever wake up again dropping with every hour. 

It was a car - completely unrelated to a case. And isn’t that ironic? He risks his life _all the fucking time_ entering houses gun first, not knowing what dangers lie ahead, and the first time he drives in _over a year_ some asshole decides it’ll be _fun_ to go 120 on the freeway and spins out of control, causing a four car accident in the process. And the asshole walked away, too - how’s that fair?

You wonder what Spencer would say, if he could talk right now. If he’d tell you about the statistical likelihood of dying in a car accident and how much more likely it is than dying from a shark attack or something. If he’d tell you about how we aren’t afraid of cars because they’re too recent an invention - that if they’d been around thousands and thousands of years ago, we’d have evolved to fear them the same way we do spiders and snakes and deep, open water. 

Spencer doesn’t like driving, but he isn’t afraid of cars either (present tense because he’s still here, his heart’s still beating, even though he won’t wake up) 

…

The doctors said he has major damage to his spinal cord, so ~~even if~~ _when_ he wakes up, the doctors aren’t hopeful that he’ll ever be able to walk unassisted. And it’s always possible he has some type of permanent brain damage - it’s impossible to tell due to the swelling, and anyway it’d all be speculation without an _awake_ patient.

You don’t know how to feel about the swelling because once it goes down this will end one of two ways - the pressure could be causing the coma (in which case he’ll wake up once it goes down), or it could be masking underlying, irreparable damage to his brain that will keep him asleep forever. 

So it allows you to live in limbo, in Schrödinger’s box - he both still has a chance and doesn’t, and if the swelling never goes down you’ll never have to face the reality that it might be the latter situation. 

But it’s also possible that the swelling itself could cause the damage that will prevent him from ever waking up, so you know it needs to go down. That the longer his brain stays under intense pressure, the worse the odds get. 

It’s been a week and he’s still not breathing on his own. The swelling’s barely gone down at all. You can tell the doctors and nurses aren’t hopeful, that they’ve seen cases like this before that have ended badly. You can tell they think you should say your goodbyes while there’s still a chance that he’ll be able to hear you, even if he can’t respond. 

You’re starting to think they might be right.

…

You channel _Spencer Reid_ and think about what he would do if your roles were reversed. You read up on coma patients as much as possible and learn that stimulating the senses might help him recover, so you download classical music on an old mp3 and ask the nurses to help him listen to it when you’re not there.

You go through his entire book collection and pick out the ones that are the most worn and well-read, spend visiting hours reading and reading and reading until your voice grows hoarse, hoping familiar words in a familiar voice will rouse him. 

The others come too, often. Garcia brings a mug of coffee with her every time, not drinking it but leaving it on the table. _He likes the smell_ , she says, lining up little figurines on the windowsill. They don’t come as often as you, though - they’re not technically on leave like you are, though the team is on stand down until further notice. Hotch granted you a leave of absence, effective immediately, as soon as he got the call. 

Everyone is so deeply affected - Spencer’s touched so many people’s lives, most of all his team members (both past and present) - but none more so than yourself. Everyone knows _why_ but doesn’t say it. Can’t say it, is more accurate.

The closest anyone gets is JJ, one day - she says, “You’ll get to tell him,” and you know what she’s talking about, and you know she means when he’s awake. 

You wish you had as much hope as she does. 

…

It’s day ten and the swelling has been steadily dropping over the past few days and it’s finally gotten low enough that they want to start trying to take him off of the ventilator. You tell them you need to talk to him first and technically you don’t have any authority over his care, but they don’t argue with you at all. 

You wonder if it’s because they’re practiced in dealing with distraught family members and friends, or if they can tell what it is that you need to say. Either way, you get some time alone with him, and you know it’s time to say it.

You maneuver between the leads and tubes, sitting down on the ICU bed next to him and grasping one of his hands in both of yours, closing your eyes for a second and imagining him miraculously squeezing back, blinking open his eyes and trying to extubate himself -

None of that happens. He’s just as limp as he was before. Completely unresponsive, a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale. But you know that sometimes coma patients report having heard their family and friends talking to them while they were unconscious, so you tell him exactly how you would have if he was awake -

_Dr. Spencer Reid - that’s how you introduced yourself when we first met. You smiled and gave me a cute little awkward wave and...I didn’t know it then, but that was just the beginning. Over the years that I’ve known you, I’ve come to learn that you’re gentle and kind and compassionate - all the things that matter most._

_You told me one time that you used to wish you were ‘normal,’ and that’s when I knew - you...you’re the best man I’ve ever had the great fortune of meeting and knowing and becoming friends with, and I would never wish you to be anyone but yourself._

_I love it when you get excited and geek out about astronomy or plane mechanics or mushrooms or, or_ anything _really. I love it when you ramble. I love your voice, and the way it lilts when you’re talking about something you like, and the way you smile at the people you love, and the way you laugh at Garcia’s nerdy jokes._

_I...I love you, Spencer. I love you so much, and I need you to know that, okay? I needed you to hear me say it because…_

_I - I want you to stay and fight, I want you to wake up and...and just keep being your amazing self. And if that’s what you wanna do, I’ll support you the whole way. But I know that might not be possible. And if it’s too painful for you - if you can’t...if you have to go, I need you to know that - that it’s okay. It’s okay, Spencer. You can go if you need to, we’ll all be okay._

_But whether or not you come back to us? To me? The team will never stop loving you - I will never stop loving you. You’re the love of my life, Spencer Reid, and that will never change, whether you’re here or not_

\- You brush a hand over his cheek and give him a kiss on the forehead just before the doctors come back in. They watch him and the monitors like hawks, cautiously switching the ventilator to flow-by and seeing how he fairs on his own.

His pulse jumps and his blood oxygen saturation falls and it makes your stomach drop. But then they start normalizing again as his chest adopts a steady rise and fall, rise and fall. You watch him breathe and it’s one of the most amazing things you’ve ever seen - after a few hours, the doctors clear him for extubation with close monitoring (just in case)

He passed his ‘spontaneous breathing trial’ on the first attempt, and it’s still not a sure thing that he’ll wake up. But it gives you hope.

… 

In the end, he comes back to you. 

He’s starts making some movements, tiny little twitches really (though, as expected, nothing in his feet or legs), and it’s relighted the doctors’ hope - _this is a very good sign,_ they tell you _, we still can’t say anything for sure, but the next thing we’re looking for is response to stimuli like pain or voices. It’d be very helpful if you could pay attention to any reactions he might have to your or your teammates’ - he’s more likely to respond to someone he recognizes._

The doctors start coming by to conduct their pain response exam more often, unable to hide their relief when he starts extending and flexing his arms in response to nail bed pressure, then progresses to recoiling from their touch.

And then one day, it happens. His IV has to be replaced for some reason - his vein blew, you’re pretty sure - and his eyes flutter open in response to the pinch of the nurse inserting a new IV catheter. 

They’re bleary and unfocused, yes, and they close again almost right away. But he opened them. He opened them, and you know he still has a long way to go before he can sit up or talk or even just stay awake for an extended period of time, but it’s a clear sign that he’s improving. That he hasn’t gone _away_.

Over the next week he starts responding to voices - you’ve noticed he opens his eyes more when _you_ read to him than when the nurses say anything -

_Hello Dr. Reid, how are you today? Do you remember me? I'm Kelly - I’ll be your nurse for the night. I was here two nights ago, so you might remember my voice, but don’t worry if you don’t, okay?_

\- they emphasize talking to him like you normally would and always address him directly, never talking about him as if he’s not in the room. It’s nice. 

He starts ‘localizing pain’ - which you learn means pushing the doctors’ hand out of the way when they conduct their pain response exam - and spontaneously waking and making garbled noises. The wordless vocalizations worry you at first, but then the doctors explain that -

_Speaking right away isn’t expected, despite what you often see in films. The fact that he’s making noise is good, actually, because it means he’s still able to control his vocal chords, at least to some degree - it’s a good sign that he’ll eventually regain his ability to speak_

\- All of this means that he scores high enough on the Glasgow Coma Scale to no longer be officially comatose, and that the doctors and nurses start telling you what to expect as he continues to improve - 

_He’ll most likely progress through a stage we call ‘post-traumatic amnesia.’ Basically, we expect him to be uncharacteristically agitated and aggressive. He may exhibit inappropriate behavior as well. He’s not there yet, but we want you to be prepared for what comes next - it’s important that you remain calm around him and don’t take any of his behavior to heart._

_His brain is trying to re-acclimate to being awake and he likely won’t understand why he’s in the hospital, or even that he_ is _in the hospital. Normally we worry about elopement, but since he’s unfortunately showing no signs of motor function in his legs just yet, we don’t expect that to be an issue at this point_

\- it scares you a little bit, the idea of seeing him act so strangely, but you’ll gladly deal with any and _all_ of it because he’s _alive_ and he’s _awake_. The post-traumatic amnesia is a sign of improvement, apparently, which means it’s good and you welcome it. 

…

He’s just starting to regain his words - slurred and slow and sometimes spoken in the wrong order - when the disorientation hits. Suddenly, he goes from being calm and spaced out most of the time, to constantly trying to push himself out of bed and getting angry when you and the team and the nurses won’t let him. 

He’s yells - _Lemme go!_ and _Wh’reamI?_ and _ge’ outta here th’ unsub’sss comin’ ‘ack sssoon_ (the one breaks your heart the most - you’re not sure what he thinks is going on, but as confused as he is he’s still trying to do his job). The only good thing is that he definitely recognizes people he knows - he reacts much better to anyone from the team than he does to the doctors and nurses.

He keeps trying to hit his legs when he realizes he can’t move them, and pull off his clothes when...well, you’re not really sure why (the nurses tell you it’s probably because he doesn’t like how they feel and hasn’t yet regained his social awareness and sense of modesty), so he ends up with a constant observer to stop him from hurting or undressing himself. 

The erratic-ness doesn’t last very long - about two days - and you’re thankful for it. He starts ‘persisting’ - making the same comments _over and over_ again and asking the same questions near constantly - but that _also_ means his ability to process new information is returning. He now understands that he’s in the hospital and while he’s still a little confused as to _why_ , he’s stopped trying to get up and leave. 

They start transitioning him back onto food once he passes a swallow test. He has to start on a thickened diet at first, and when he wrinkles his nose in that familiar way and asks, “(y/n), why is my water so slimy?” in a voice that’s still slightly slurred, you can’t help but laugh. 

That’s when you’re sure he’s gonna be okay.

… 

They transfer him to a physical rehabilitation facility where they’re going to try their best to help him regain as much mobility as possible, while also reteaching him how to perform daily life tasks that used to be _so easy_. 

You go to visit him one day - you’ve been back at work (though only on desk duty) for a week or two now and you still visit him every day, but you can’t be there constantly like you were before - and his nurses all grimace (though they try to hide it) just before you make it into his room. One of them gives you a tired look and says, “Maybe you’ll have better luck with him, he’s been refusing to go to any of his appointments all day…,” and you know immediately that the _frustration_ is starting to hit.

He’s been surprisingly okay up until now. You think it’s because there was always so much going on at the hospital; he didn’t have any time to himself to really process what happened; But now that he’s moved to rehab things are a lot more relaxed - he’s not connected to a bunch of machines anymore, and the nurses don’t check on him nearly as often. 

When you walk into his room he’s scowling down at a book - you can tell he’s not reading it because his eyes aren’t moving (and it’s not that he's having trouble reading - as far as the doctors can tell, his cognitive abilities are entirely intact. You wouldn’t have loved him any less if they had been impaired, wouldn’t have supported him any less, but you don’t know if _he’d_ have been able to accept it - you’re almost certain he can learn to live with a physical disability, but he values his own mind _so much_ that you’re not sure what he would do if he didn’t have it anymore).

You can tell he knows you’re there because his scowl deepens, even though he refuses to acknowledge you. He’s being a little passive aggressive, as he tends to be when he’s frustrated, and you don’t envy the nurses who've undoubtedly been getting the brunt of it all day. 

You sit down on the bed facing him and wait until he feels compelled to look up at you, curling his arms around himself in a protective manner. His voice still retains a little bit of a slur when he speaks, but you barely notice it anymore, “Are you just gonna sit there and stare at me? What do you want, (y/n)?”

You don’t react to his shortness, just reply, “I want you to be happy. I want you to be able to move on from this,” holding his gaze as much as he’ll let you.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, staring down at his lap and practically hissing at you, “Move on from this? (y/n), I’m never gonna be able to go into the field again; I don’t even know if the bureau will let me keep a desk job. I can’t even get out of bed on my own - they’ve put me in a _fucking_ diaper because I can’t - “ he cuts himself off, hiding his face in his hands. 

You take it in stride and continue, “I said something to you while you were still asleep, right before they took you off the ventilator, did you hear it?”

The anger melts off of his face and he adopts a considering expression, brows creasing together and teeth worrying at his lower lip. You take it as your cue to continue.

“I asked them for a moment alone with you before they did it, just in case the results weren’t promising. I sat down on your bed in the ICU just like this,” you smooth your hands over the sheets, looking down at them before meeting his eye once again, “And I told you it was okay if you needed to go. Because as much as I need you here, I couldn’t be selfish like that if you were in pain. I couldn’t do that to you, do you know why?”

He swallows and stares down at his hands, twisting them together in his lap. His breath hitches as if he’s trying not to cry, and you realize he _hasn’t_ cried yet. His eyes are watery when he finally raises his head and says, “I thought that was a dream,” and reaches for your hand.

You close both of yours around it, just like you did before, but this time he squeezes back and now _you’re_ tearing up. “I thought I’d lost you,” you say with a shaky voice, “You’re still here - don’t you dare give up now, Spencer, don’t you _dare_.”

He lunges forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest and threading his fingers through your hair, whispering, “I won’t I won’t I won’t, I promise,” into your neck.

You stay there for a while just like that, feeling his heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his chest, before leaning up to rest your forehead against his and muttering, “You always forget that we - that _I_ \- care about you for who you _are_ , not what you can do. You’re _so much more_ than your brain and your gun and your credentials - you’re a _person_ , and I don’t _care_ if you can walk or not. I care that you’re alive. That you’re right here with me. I love you. I love you so, _so_ much - that’s what I care about, Spencer Reid.”

You feel his breath shudder against your lips as he lets out a shaky exhale, tears finally falling down his cheeks as he mutters back, “Thank you, thank you so, _so_ much, (y/n) - thank you for not giving up on me. I’ve read my chart, and I can only imagine what it was like to see me that way - thank you for staying anyway. You’re so strong, stronger than I could ever be. I don’t remember all of it, but I remember you reading to me and someone bringing coffee all the time - “

“Garcia,” you interject, surprised at the teary distortion of your own voice. 

He huffs out an airy laugh, “Yeah, that sounds like Garcia,” he pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath before continuing, “I remember what you said. You’re the love of my life, too - I wanted to say it back, but I couldn’t. So I’m saying it now. You’re _it_ for me, (y/n). _I love you_.”

Of course, you don’t delude yourself into thinking this is over just yet, that’s he’s suddenly just moved past it. There will be frustration and self-doubt, you know. He’s not perfect, but he’s _worth it_. 

Many things have changed over the past few weeks, but there’s one thing that’s stayed the same - that you know will _always_ stay the same. Spencer Reid is a good man - he’s gentle and kind and compassionate and perfectly _himself_. You would never wish for _one second_ that he was anyone else. 


End file.
